


Tales from Dale & Mirkwood

by larkspyt



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-09 23:05:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7820737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkspyt/pseuds/larkspyt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Barduil shorts previously posted on tumblr under the username 'larkspyt'.</p><p>1::     Bard's friendship with Thranduil attracts some negative attention.</p><p>2::      modernAU! Bard has a Narnia-like wardrobe that opens into Middle-Earth, specifically the Mirkwood forest.</p><p>3::      After slaying Smaug, Bard inherits the dragon’s immortality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Premise: Bard’s friendship with Thranduil attracts some negative attention.

Many men huddled in the Thirsty Maid tonight. King Bard was among them for he had been making rounds in the marketplace when the rain caught him unawares. He had a table to himself with bread, cheese, and ale and appeared content to keep his own company while the young women present looked on admiringly and the young boys stared in curiosity. 

It was Alfrid, who broke the king’s peace. He took a seat opposite Bard, slamming a full pint of ale that sloshed over the rim of the tankard and onto the sleeve of his fine tunic.

It was no secret that after the battle with the elves and dwarves, Alfrid had become very rich, though he would not say where he got the money. It was also plainly known that Alfrid had none of those riches left. Many have seen him entering the gambling dens near the outer edges of the city. 

“You don’t mind if I sit here do you, _sire_ ,” said Alfrid, drawling the title.    
Bard continued to eat as if he had not heard him. He ate in neat, economical bites. Daughters who had grown up with slovenly fathers sighed. 

“Back so soon from your visit to the elves?” said Alfrid. Again, Bard gave no answer. “How many times have you gone to Mirkwood this year? Is it five? Seven?” Bard gave his ale a pointed slurp. “And how many times have they come to Dale? I think it mighty ride of them, don’t you?”

Bard glared at him without raising his head. “What do you want?”

“I’m only looking out for you, sire. You’re too trusting. Always have been. I’m just afraid that ol’ elf-king is gonna take advantage of you since you give him so much of your ear.”

“Alfrid,” Bard warned. 

“Aren’t the rest of you interested in what goes on when our king meets with the elf-king?” said Alfrid to the other patrons in the room. 

Some turned away, ashamed at being caught eavesdropping. Others looked on with keener interest and murmured that yes, they were interested. They were all concerned about their king being too involved with elves since everyone knew elves were a funny sort of folk. 

“There is nothing to be concerned about. I go to Lord Thranduil for counsel,” said Bard.

“The ways of elves are different. How do we know he’s not giving you ill advice? He’s a king himself. He’ll be watching out for his own interest,” said Alfrid. Here, his intent became clear. “You need human counsellors, m’lord. Preferably one with experience. I’m not saying I’m the best man for the job, but I have the experience.”

One man chimed in, saying, yes, Alfrid was a terrible example but perhaps it wasn’t wise to fraternise with elves.

His friend added, why haven’t the elves visited? Did they think Dale beneath their concern?

One woman suggested that perhaps elves were standoffish and did not wish to mingle with Men. 

The comments grew bolder and bolder with the warmth of the fire and the heady buzz of ale to help them along. 

“You see, sire?” said Alfrid. “You should not trust the elf.”

Bard slammed his tankard. “You forget your place.” Each word drawn was slow and soft, that when he spoke them, the entire room flinched and every fury-laden syllable. “Lord Thranduil has been king far longer than you or I have been alive. Are you suggesting that you would know more about ruling than he?”

“No, sire, but this is not Mirkwood and we are not elves,” said Alfrid.

“He bears the wisdom of the West, the same wisdom that borne the great kingdom of Numenor. Are you saying we are too good for such a wisdom?”

“No, sire, but who is to say he would share this wisdom?”

“All this counsel, he offers freely and generously and you dare insinuate foul intentions?” By this point, the onlookers expected sparks to fly from Bard’s lips, so sharp and acrid were his words. 

“I meant no insult, sire,” Alfrid insisted, back-pedalling desperately, “only that I am better positioned as I am your man; a man of Dale.”

Bard stood up. His chair hit the floor with a loud thunk, bringing abrupt silence. He drew himself to full height and in his rage, appeared taller and broader than any remembered him to be. 

“You who took coins and left my children to fend for themselves before armies of orcs, you who tried to claim power when we had lost everything to dragon fire, you who had deprived us of food and dignity and scorned us under the protection of the Master, you dare compare yourself to _him_?”

Alfrid drew so far back from Bard to escape his ire that he fell of his seat. 

Bard addressed the room. Everyone was watching and did not pretend otherwise now. “When we had nothing and were shivering, cold and hungry in the skeleton of this city, who was it who brought us provisions? When it was needed of us to fight, who gave us weapons and helped us drive back the enemy?”

“But my lord,” said one man, “he is yet king of another land. We cannot trust him.”

“The Elvenking is my friend.” Bard’s tone brooked no interjections, not even in support. “Anyone who thinks ill of him thinks ill of me. I beseech any man or woman who thinks thusly to bring their complains to me here and now. I will listen to them and consider what you say. Well? Were you not all very dissatisfied a moment ago? Speak.”

No one spoke. No one dared raise their gaze. 

Bard righted his chair and returned to his meal. When Alfrid opened his mouth, Bard narrowed his eyes. “Begone with you.”

Alfrid squeaked and scrambled off to find another table. The air at this one has turned suffocating. 

The young boys, who had earlier looked at Bard with curiosity, now stared in muted awe, while the young women exchanged flushed looks of bemusement, having never seen their king so impassioned. And those who had dared speak up because they remembered Bard as their bargeman not their king, dared not lift their heads when Bard passed them on his way out of the inn. 

From that day forth, it became common knowledge not to speak ill of the Elvenking, for it was the quickest way to King Bard’s wrath.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1:: Bard's friendship with Thranduil attracts some negative attention.
> 
> 2:: modernAU! Bard has a Narnia-like wardrobe that opens into Middle-Earth, specifically the Mirkwood forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Premise: modernAU! Bard has a Narnia-like wardrobe that opens into Middle-Earth, specifically the Mirkwood forest.

Bard shouted for his children to come for breakfast thrice before putting the cereal boxes back into the cupboard and going to the attic. A heavy, wooden wardrobe stood in the middle of the room, a remnant from when Bard’s great-grandfather had owned the house. The doors of the wardrobe were thrown wide open in invitation.

Bard knew what this was: punishment. 

Steeling himself, he stepped past the threshold and felt snow on his face. His body went rigid with cold. Smothering a curse by biting his lip, he reached blindly behind him for one of the mouldy jackets hanging in the wardrobe. He had lost track of how long he had been away. The last time he’d come through, it’d been summer. 

The guards posted at the gates of the Elvenking’s halls were startled when they saw him. After a short exchange of pleasantries, they escorted him to the throne room where he was left to wait for someone to attend him. He sagged in relief when he realised it was Legolas. 

“Bard!” Legolas clasped his arm, the friendliest gesture an elf knew how to give. “Does _ada_ know you’re here?”

“Well,” said Bard, “I’m here for my children. Have you seen them? They snuck away when I wasn’t looking and if I don’t hurry, they’ll be late to school.”

Legolas frowned. “Perhaps they are playing that game again. Hide-and-seek? I will ask the guards to keep a look out. Would you like to wait in _ada_ ’s rooms?”

“I’ll walk around. It’s been a while since I visited.”

Legolas’s smile dimmed. “Yes it has,” he said and left Bard to wander about. 

Bard regretted it almost immediately. There was nowhere he could go in these halls that did not evoke some bittersweet memory of Thranduil. Under that arch overlooking the feasting halls, they’d traded stories of child-raising. And in that tiny arboretum, Thranduil had told him about Eärendil’s star while Bard tried to recall what he could about the Milky Way. And this is the library, where Bard had been waiting when he heard Thranduil had been ambushed by orcs. 

He remembered spilling wine, ruining some books. He removed them from the shelf now and smirked at the wine stains. Even with their magic and miracles, the elves had not managed to salvage the books. They had managed to save Thranduil, but he had continued to sleep for weeks. Bard would rather not remember the wretch he had made himself in those weeks. 

“Da!”

Bard turned around, just in time to receive Tilda as she ran into his arms with Sigrid and Bain trailing warily behind her. 

“I told you he would come before the hour was up,” hissed Sigrid while Bain rolled his eyes and passed her a tenner.

“Are you going to explain why the three of you came here without telling me?” said Bard.

“There is a plan,” said Tilda, not noticing the alarms looks her siblings were throwing at her. 

Bard smiled down at Tilda. “What plan?” All thoughts of punishing his children fled when Thranduil entered the library. 

Tilda turned round to Bain. “What’s next in the plan?” She squeaked when Bain scooped her up and made for the door. 

“Children!” Bard protested. 

Sigrid threw a look at him from over her shoulder and ushered her sibling outs. This was definitely punishment. Punishment for not telling them why he had stopped coming to Middle-Earth with them. 

At first, days in Middle-Earth were family adventures. The four of them would explore the terrain together, hiking through the Mirkwood forest and fishing along the River Running. On one occasion, they even went to the market in Dale. But nothing compared to the Elvenking’s halls. 

They had met the acquaintance of the elves early when Tilda had happened upon the king’s elk, resting by a watering hole. Upon learning that Bard and his family were from a different realm, the Mirkwood elves had adopted them. Bard had enjoyed their company and archery almost as much as the elves thrilled in his children. And there, the chasm began. 

The more time they spent in the Woodland Realm, the more Bard realised his children were falling in love. Their trips prolonged hour by hour until they would spend their entire weekend in Thranduil’s halls. Bard had no problem with that. His children were wonderful and he was glad the elves thought so too, but there was no place for Bard in the larger scheme of things.

Bard was a simple man. He worked for a moving company until his boss retired and handed the business over to him. His earnings were meagre and his expectations of life appropriate to his situation. Before he’d discovered the magical workings of the wardrobe, his life had been entirely unworthy of note. 

It was well and fine for the elvish court to favour his children. They were full of potential with their entire lives ahead of them. Bard, on the other hand, was already grizzled at thirty-five, hand irreversibly ruined from years of labour. 

Tilda had once complained that she didn’t understand his reasoning; that she thought him every bit as wonderful as they were, if not more, and that Thranduil agreed. Bard had to remind her not to take everything Thranduil said to heart. He didn’t mean to imply that Thranduil was a liar, but simply that he was a king and an elf, who has lived for a very long time. He might have forgotten the heavy weight of words. 

Beyond that, Bard had offered no explanation as to why he would not see Thranduil with them. No wonder they had thrown a tantrum.

The silence that hung between him and Thranduil now felt heavy and dangerous. Bard wiped his clammy palms on his jeans and turned away from the elf-king, gathering his thoughts and readying a few platitudes. 

“You have been avoiding me,” said Thranduil. Bard froze. “At first, I found it insulting, then hurtful. I do not extend friendship to many. Can you imagine what it’s like to offer yourself earnestly only to be denied?”

“I’m guessing you’re about to tell me,” said Bard. Choosing to keep his back to Thranduil proved to be a mistake. He had no warning of Thranduil’s approach until he felt the heat of another body at his back. This close, Bard could detect the slight scent of winterberries. Bard swallowed. “I’m glad you’re all better from that skirmish with the orcs. Bain told me you were riding within days of waking up.”

“Finally, you reveal yourself.”

Bard whirled around, surprised. “I revealed nothing.” He took a step backwards. when he saw that Thranduil had been standing closer than he’d expected. The elf-king closed the distance, intent on keeping the proximity between them. 

“When I was wounded in that attack, you realised the depth of your affection for me and it frightened you. You probably thought yourself stupid for having fallen for someone so above your station, who lives in a realm so irreconcilably different from yours, you perceived no future for these feelings. So you chose to run like a coward while you keep sending me your children as painful reminders of what we could have, what we still might have, if I could only reach you.”

Thranduil cornered Bard against the bookshelves, using his height to loom over Bard. His voice was calm but his eyes betrayed all the fury he felt. 

So very few people were taller than Bard. Bard mused that if he wanted to kiss him, he would have to tilt his head up. He was letting his mind run away with wishful thoughts again. He bowed his head and said to Thranduil’s chest, “There will come a day when that wardrobe stops working and I’ll have to be prepared for it, whether that means consoling my children because they cannot swim in the River Running any more, or controlling my grief because my children are here and I’ll never see them again. Whichever the scenario, I will come out the worse for it, but when the time comes, I’d rather not mourn losing you as well.”

“You make no sense. Such a scenario would not come to pass if you remain here with your children.” _With me_ , Thranduil meant. 

“Because _that’s_ the real world.” Bard pointed off in a vague direction to indicate the wardrobe. “This - this is just a fantasy.”

Thranduil leaned in so close that Bard could feel his hot breath on his lips. “In truth, you want to stay, more desperately than your children. You’re just afraid to admit it. To me.”

“Stop that.”

“What are you referring to?”

“You’re seducing me. Stop it. I can’t think straight like this.” Bard’s breath hitched as Thranduil kissed him. It was more chaste than he’d imagined, longer than he’d dared hoped. Bard held onto that kiss like a sad man distraught to leave a good dream. 

“Your wardrobe will not close. Not for a good long time,” said Thranduil. 

“You can’t know that.”

“But I do. I am very fond of you, you know, and it is my most express desire that you stay.” 

Bard stared up at Thranduil; half in awe of this ancient, beautiful creature who held him in such thrall and half in dear of what loving such a creature would entail. He fisted his hands in the front of Thranduil’s robes. “You say that like I ever had a choice.”

Outside the library, huddled in a group, Bain and Sigrid traded fist bumps. Family trips into Middle-Earth were back on. Plus Thranduil had promised to let them ride his elk if their plan worked. Squatting between them Tilda pouted as her stomach growled. “I’m hungry. Can we have breakfast now?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1:: Bard's friendship with Thranduil attracts some negative attention.
> 
> 2:: modernAU! Bard has a Narnia-like wardrobe that opens into Middle-Earth, specifically the Mirkwood forest.
> 
> 3:: After slaying Smaug, Bard inherits the dragon’s immortality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Premise: After slaying Smaug, Bard inherits the dragon’s immortality.

Bard II of Dale swallowed nervously. When his attendant had said that someone wanted to see him, he hadn’t expected it to be the elf-king of Mirkwood himself. Dale has not had direct contact with the woodland elves since Bard II’s grandfather, Bain, had been king. 

Standing before the ancient king, Bard II felt unprepared for kingship more than ever. He wasn’t sure how one should receive an elf-king. Should he bow? Was there a traditional meter of salutation he was supposed to offer? How was he even supposed to address the elf-king? Lord Thranduil? King Greenwood? Master Elf? 

“Please have a seat. I’ll have my men bring you some refreshment,” said Bard II, refraining from fidgeting and he snapped at his men for attention. “You must be worn from battle. Is there anything you need?”

Even in the darkest moments of the war, Bard II had thought his father would survive. Instead, Bard II was crowned the youngest king of Dale. Many would say he was ambitiously named for who could live up to the great king, Bard the Dragonslayer? From the way the elf-king was glaring at him, Bard II probably did not measure up in his eyes either. 

The elf-king ignored the seat, the water, the proffered fruit, and strode forward, asking, “Do you know where I might find the Bowman?”

“My lord?” 

“I was told he came to you, offering aid just before the Battle of Dale.”

Bard II nodded dumbly. “He helped us vanquish many an Easterling. My people and I are indebted to him.”

No one had been more surprised than Bard II when the Bowman had turned up. All his life, Bard II had thought the Bowman was a figure of myth. According to the stories, the Bowman was the guardian spirit of Dale. He came whenever the city faced great danger, carrying a longbow just like the Dragonslayer, the first king of Dale. All enemies of Dale fell before him, and when the danger passed, so did he. 

The elf-king lifted his chin. “And? Where is he?”

Bard II fisted his sweaty palms. “My lord, he is the Bowman. A figure shrouded in mystery. No one knows his right name or his history, much less his whereabouts. The last I saw of him, he was fighting alongside Dain of Erebor, protecting my father’s body from the Easterlings.”

To Bard II’s surprise, the elf-king’s visage crumpled in on itself. “So you do not know if he survived.”

“If he was injured, he most likely will have been brought to the healing houses. But-“ The elf-king left before Bard II could finish. “My lord, let me show you the way.”

“There is no need. I remember it.”

All heads in the healing houses looked up when the elf-king marched in without ceremony and said with a voice so sharp, some of the sleeping wounded snapped awake, “Bard?”

“Yes, my lord?” panted Bard II, who had run to catch up to the elf.

“Bard, are you here?”

“My lord, I stand beside you.”

“ _Bard!_ ” said the elf-king. 

There was a long groan from the end of the room as the Bowman sat up in his bed and smiled groggily at the elf-king. “There is no need to shout, _meleth-nin_. I am here.”

Bard II let out a sound of surprise while the elf-king fled down the room and gathered the Bowman in an embrace. The Bowman wrapped his arms tight across the elf-king’s broad shoulders even though the movement tugged at the wound in his side. 

“Blessed Elbereth,” the elf-king whispered and kissed the Bowman. “I told you to stay away. What good is it for me to have survived the evil of Dol Guldur if you had died here?”

The Bowman’s smile turned wry. “I’m sorry. He was Bain’s son. I could not leave him to fight alone.” The Bowman’s face crumpled. “I failed him. He died right before my eyes. Why do I live when my kin perish?” The Bowman clung onto the elf-king, hiding his face in his neck. 

“Not all,” the elf-king whispered soothingly into the Bowman’s hair. “Look. He stands before you.”

Bard II frowned. He didn’t understand the conversation unfolding before him, but it didn’t feel appropriate to interrupt them. There was an impenetrable intimacy between the elf-king and the Bowman. It was as if they existed on a separate plane. 

So Bard II bowed his head and left them alone, choosing to think on this mystery another time. He hadn’t expected the Bowman to come knocking on his door that night. 

The Bowman stood straight, as if the wound in his side no longer bothered him. Without the dirt and blood caking his face, he looked no older than forty. He looked younger still when he smiled and said, “I was told you have some questions about who I am.”

Bard II had plenty. Who was he? Where did he come from? Were the legends true? Was he a guardian spirit? Was he an elf? Was his longbow the same bow the first king of Dale had wielded?

Bard II opened his mouth, and closed it. 

There had been another myth spread around Dale. It claimed that the slaying of the dragon Smaug had granted their first king immortal life. No one believed it because Bard the Dragonslayer had a tomb. And if the Dragonslayer had lived on, why had he not remained in Dale and stayed king forever?

Bard II thought again about the mystery of that impenetrable intimacy. “Was it because of love?”

The Bowman stared. “My lord?”

Fidgeting terribly, hoping he won’t get laughed at, Bard II said, “Did you leave us because you’d given your heart to Lord Thranduil,“ he swallowed, “great-grandfather?”

A moment of silence hung between them in which neither drew breath. Then, Bard the Bowman broke into a watery smile. “I always told Bain you were going to be a smart one.” He embraced him. Bard II returned it, too stunned to do much else. It was not every day your childhood stories proved true. 

They conversed deep into the night. The Bowman told him impossible stories of battles that happened a hundred years ago, of a world where people lived with a dragon for a neighbour and a greedy man for a Master, and of watching Bain, Sigrid, and Tilda pass, one-by-one, until the truth of his immortality drove him to the elves. There the stories stopped. 

Bard II felt once again trapped on the wrong side of a wall; able to see how much his great-grandfather loved the elf-king but unable to comment on it. 

“Will I ever see you again?” said Bard II at the end of the night. 

“You know the stories. Should you ever face any danger, I will come to your aid. I am always just there,” said the Bowman, pointing out the window towards the east, “in the Elvenking’s Halls.”

Watching the Bowman leave was like waking up from a dream. He departed with the elf-king, crossing into the borders of Eryn Lasgallen, and was never seen in Dale again.

Bard II went on to live up to his namesake. Though he never got the chance to slay a dragon, he was a well-beloved king and under him, the kingdom of Dale flourished.


End file.
